


Speakeasy

by MizJoely



Series: SherlollyPrompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Roaring 20s AU, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9863384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Sherlock undercover as a bartender at a 1920s Speakeasy, where Molly comes in for a drink to get her mind off colleagues who are intimidated by her being a woman.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The third of four prompt fills promised to new followers of geekyangie over on tumblr. This one is for sherlockholmesismytype. The prompt given is the story summary. Enjoy!

Why, Molly thought morosely as she plunked herself onto a barstool, had she ever believed it would be easier to take up her chosen profession in the United States? Men were men no matter what country they came from, and she was sick of how intimidated they were by her being a female, much less a doctor. The fact that she worked in the morgue and did autopsies didn’t help; she couldn’t begin to count the number of ‘helpful’ suggestions that she might be better off delivering babies or dealing with ‘women’s problems’ she’d been subjected to in the past six months. She was glad her friend Meena had recommended this place to her just the other day; Molly was more than desperate for a nice cold gin and tonic to wash away the taste of male testosterone clogging her (figurative) senses.

“I should have asked that idiot Moran if he’d rather I told him to turn his head and cough,” she muttered to herself, fussing with her hat as she waited for the bartender to show up and take her order.

The sound of choked off laughter brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see the single most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on standing in front of her, still chuckling. At her highly inappropriate words. How perfectly mortifying.

She was still trying to work out a way to explain herself when she realized he was asking her a question. “What’s your poison?” he repeated patiently as she just gawped at him like an idiot.

It finally clicked that he was the bartender. The one she’d been waiting for. “All my life,” she breathed out, then blushed bright red as she realized what she’d done. “Uh, a gin and tonic, please, been gasping for a drink...um, all my life,” she added in a lame attempt to explain her earlier words.

The slow grin he gave her told her she wasn’t fooling him in the least, and she blushed even redder under his knowing gaze. As soon as he served her drink she mumbled her thanks, handed over the necessary coinage, and tried to make herself invisible as she sipped at the refreshing beverage.

“You’re not from around here,” she heard someone say, and looked up as soon as she realized it was the bartender speaking, and not one of the men seated on either side of her.

Coming from one of them she’d have rolled her eyes and given them the cold shoulder; too many American men seemed to think that an Englishwoman must be easy, although Heaven knew why. It was a good thing she knew how to handle that sort of unwanted attention.

Unfortunately what she was less adept at handling was attention of the _wanted_ kind. Especially when it came from a man who ticked all her favorite boxes: tall, dark curly hair, gorgeous blue (green?) eyes, sharp cheekbones, and... _British_??

She really was in bad shape, if it was taking her brain this long to catch up with the fact that his accent screamed Posh Londoner to her ears. “Um, no, I’m not,” she replied, wishing that her cheeks would cool down just a tiny bit. “I’m from…”

“Northamptonshire,” he said promptly. “Born there, studied in London, moved here for the so-called better opportunities available to a female doctor. Discovered that was only a myth, and are more than ready to move back home at the first opportunity, where at least your boorish male co-workers will come from familiar backgrounds and might more easily be set back on their heels.”

“Uh...how did you know all that?” Molly asked, bewildered and more than a little suspicious. “Did Meena put you up to this?” She craned her head around, trying to spy her friend in the crowd of people, to no avail.

“Don’t know any ‘Meena’,” he replied with a shrug as she turned her questioning gaze back on him.

“Then how…”

“I deduced it,” he replied, rather smugly. Before she could ask what exactly that meant, he went on: “As a fellow countryman with a very practiced ear, your current accent and its origins were clear to me. And your profession and your distaste for your colleagues were both made blindingly obvious by your disparaging remark as you seated yourself at the bar...and of course, there’s this.” Brashly, he reached forward and flipped a finger under her coat collar, exposing the black band of her stethoscope hung round her neck. Drat, she’d forgotten to remove it before leaving work again.

“But how did you know I was thinking about moving back to England?” she asked, fascinated in spite of herself - and willing to forgive him the overly familiar gesture. She’d honestly expected him to explain that he was an undercover policeman or, that yes, Meena had told him about her - but neither answer would explain how he’d known she was thinking about chucking it all and returning home.

Before he could answer, the sounds of shouting and swearing erupted behind them. Molly whipped her head around to see what was going on, her mouth opening in a shocked ‘O’ as a veritable sea of uniformed policemen streamed into the room. “Bollocks,” she heard the bartender mutter, as if this were some minor inconvenience rather than a full-on raid.

As the shrill sound of police whistles added to the noise, Molly started to rise to her feet, just as eager to avoid arrest as the thronging masses milling about the speakeasy. However she was stopped by a pair of hands grasping her upper arms, and let out a startled screech as she felt herself being hauled bodily over the top of the bar. She was pulled close to a warm male body, and looked up to see that the bartender was the one now holding her semi-captive while chaos ruled over the rest of the room. “Shh, it’s fine, I’m the one who summoned them,” he murmured as he pressed her closer. “Although their timing could use a bit of work.”

“Wh-what? Why?” she stammered out, utterly confused - and wishing she’d had time to finish her drink before all hell broke loose.

“Because the owners are using the speakeasy as a front for an international drug-running ring,” he replied, spinning them both around so that she was pressed between his body and the bar-back. Before she could protest his high-handed treatment of her, the sound of something whizzing by her ear and smashing into the mirror behind them caused her to duck her head against his chest. “By the way, the name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“Molly Hooper,” she mumbled into his collar, feeling more than a little dazed at how the night was shaping up. She peeked up at him. “Or did you already know that, too?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the p obnoxiously and at the same time tugging her down so they were both crouching on the floor. His timing was impeccable; more bottles and glasses were slung their way, showering them with glass. He held her close, her forehead on his clavicle and his hands over her head, shielding her from the worst of the debris.

She kept her eyes tightly shut but couldn’t resist continuing to pepper him with questions while the police and patrons shouted and fought on the other side of the bar. “So you’re a policeman after all?” she asked. “How long have you been in Chicago? Why did you move here? Surely someone as clever as you has no end of opportunities in London for…”

The fact that he silenced her wasn’t surprising, considering the circumstances - but the fact that he did so with a rather searing kiss came as something of a shock. A welcome shock, to be sure, but still, a shock.

“Hey, Holmes! You back there?”

Gradually Molly realized that the background noises had lowered to a dull rumble peppered by the occasional curse. Blushing furiously, she allowed Sherlock to help her back to her feet, fearing that her rumpled appearance and undoubtedly dazed expression would give away the fact that the pair of them had been snogging like a couple of adolescents.

Why had he kissed her? Most likely to distract her, of course. Or he was simply taking advantage of the situation, and her, the way any man would under the circumstances. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it could be anything more than that - certainly he hadn’t done it because he found her attractive!

“Stop that,” he said crossly. She couldn’t help but notice that he kept his arm around her waist as they turned to face whoever had called out to him. A policeman, of course, one who was eyeing them both askance.

“I’m not doing anything!” she protested, trying to pull away from him.

“You’re thinking too loudly. I’m not taking advantage of you and I didn’t kiss you just to keep you quiet, I did it because yes, I do find you attractive and more than mildly interesting,” he retorted, tightening his grip on her waist.

“If this is a bad time,” the policeman interjected dryly, “we could always come back, do it all over again. You know, at your convenience.”

Sherlock waved his free hand in an irritable gesture. “Don’t be an idiot, Gregson. You’ll find the evidence you need down here.” He stamped his foot, and Molly heard the hollow sound of what she presumed to be a trapdoor beneath their feet. She allowed Sherlock to shuffle them both off to the side as Gregson - a lieutenant, she believed, if she was reading his rank insignia correctly - ordered a group of other policemen to go around the bar.

Sherlock brought Molly down to the far end of the bar, lifted the bar flap, and nudged her through before lowering it back into place. Thinking that was her sign to leave she pasted on a smile and opened her mouth to thank him for protecting her during the raid, but he stopped her with one raised hand. With the other he pointed at the nearest bar stool. “I still owe you a drink, Doctor Hooper. And if you’ll allow me, I’d like to escort you back to your flat.”

Molly hesitated for the briefest of seconds before nodding and sliding onto the seat. Her smile this time was sincere. “Yes, that would be lovely. And please, do call me Molly.”

“Molly,” he repeated obligingly. As he handed her her drink, he added, “Perhaps on the way we can continue our discussion of why it would be an excellent idea for you to return to England sooner rather than later. By the end of the week would be best, actually.”

Molly’s brow knit in confusion. “Why by the end of the week?”

He flashed her a grin that would have turned her knees to butter had she still been standing. “Because that’s when I’m due to return to England, and I would enjoy your company on the voyage. Now, let me tell you about an acquaintance of mine in London by the name of Mike Stamford. Last time I spoke to him he mentioned a shortage of doctors at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artbylexie did a fabulous job on this scene, didn't she??

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check out my pinterest for this story:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/mizjoely/sherlolly-fics/speakeasy/


End file.
